


Squeaky Clean

by The Tiny Viking (cranky__crocus)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Shower Sex, The Mad Quad Squad (Doctor Who)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-09-24 01:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9693317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/The%20Tiny%20Viking
Summary: Clara innocently attempts to start her day; Missy has other plans. A lesson in how to get clean and dirty.





	1. Minty Fresh

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this from a post Missolitude reblogged on tumblr once, about Character A walking in on Character B fresh out of the shower. Oh how much a little post can spark. 
> 
> **All comments so incredibly appreciated! ♥ They're a token like no other in the world of fandom - leave your local fanfic artists a symbolic penny for their work? (;**

            The whole loo was steamed up when Clara entered through the unlocked door. Missy’s hat and blazer were gone, which usually meant she was as well; she must have showered and run off like the madwoman she was.

            Why the TARDIS—her TARDIS, nonetheless—had put Missy in an adjoining bedroom with a shared toilet, Clara would never understand. Wasn’t the captain of the ship supposed to get the swankiest accommodations?

            Then again, when Ashildr (Clara was secretly relieved for the name-reclamation, if for nothing more than simplicity) had first entered the bedroom the TARDIS had crafted for her, it had been a giant pool with a bridge that led to a floating water-bed in the middle of the room.

            Of course Clara would end up in a TARDIS with a sense of humour. River had nearly pissed herself laughing when she discovered her bedroom was created as a forest with a river below and a treehouse above. In the end she had opted not to change it, while Ashildr had (and summarily received) something more classic. Missy’s bedroom changed so frequently that Clara hadn’t the foggiest what it might look like now, though she guessed some sort of purple dungeon à la 50 Shades of the Mistress.

            The bath was clean, which meant Missy hadn’t used that: she never remembered to clean it until Clara threatened to feed her to the mutant crocodiles on the brig. (Clara guessed they both covertly enjoyed the mostly-innocent threats, but it did prove that one could hardly trust an entity of mass chaos to do something as simple as clean the ruddy loo on their own. Damn TARDIS.)

            She checked her pulse out of habit: still none; still dead; still clearly alive.

            How long had it been now? Nearly 50 years? Few enough that the other three of their semi-immortal space-lady quartet still teased her for celebrating birthdays and the little anniversaries. Not that they had any issue with helping her celebrate.

            Clara swore when she looked in the mirror. Not because she looked appalling—though she probably did, with her unchecked bedhead (she had thought semi-immortals automatically attained flawless hair; she had been categorically and catastrophically incorrect)—but because of Missy’s elaborate plan to mock her as a vampire: she’d upgraded their mirror to recognise facial prints and programmed it to ignore Clara’s face. Or so she guessed when she looked in the mirror and saw no reflection at all, only the wall on the far side of the room. She swore again for good measure.

            Her TARDIS seemed too amused to make fixing the problem much of a priority, the treacherous hunk of junk.

            She sighed and looked down to ready her toothbrush; when she looked up again Missy’s face was there, a lewd grin stretched over her beautiful lips.

            Clara yelped at the unexpected reflection so clearly not her own. ‘Where did _you_ come from?’

            ‘Now that’s a loaded question,’ Missy deflected. Her grin was crooked as she dragged one fingernail up Clara’s spine; it spread a wave of tingles despite her (admittedly thin) camisole. ‘And I don’t want to think of my mother at the mo’, if it’s all the same to you.’

            ‘Nor do I,’ Clara agreed as she turned. She dropped her tooth-brush right into the puddle of water at Missy’s feet; the toothpaste fell atop the foot itself.

Missy stepped on it and cackled at the feel of minty freshness between her toes.

            ‘You’re cleaning that up.’ Clara’s voice was a growl as she tried in vain to cover up the flush of heat beneath—and, alright, visibly across—her skin in response to seeing Missy.

            Missy, who was nude as the day she was born, however much her body then was no indication of her bodies to come, and _this_ one was a work of art.

            She shimmered all over as the rivulets of water slid down her skin. Clara was dizzy with watching them slide across every curve. She tracked one droplet’s travel from Missy’s neck down to the canyon between her perfect breasts and over the soft terrain of her tummy, where it pooled in her navel for a quick moment—Clara held her breath—before it was joined by other droplets and continued down the gentle slope of her belly, over the sensitive skin at the bottom of her abdomen, and at last nestled into the coarse, wet curls at the apex of her legs. Clara swallowed and licked her lips.

            Missy was watching her full-body inspection with an amused, all-knowing glint to her eyes. She knew Clara liked what she saw as much as Clara did.

            ‘You know, I _was_ all clean,’ Missy said softly, after a moment of Clara’s intent staring. Her voice turned to something of a drawl as she lifted and tilted her leg, giving Clara a flash of pink flesh. Missy pointed to the toothpaste between her toes—wiggling them, of course—but knew precisely where Clara was looking. ‘Now I’m all dirty again.’

            Clara rubbed her eyes (sleep crusties, how attractive) to break the spell. ‘I don’t know about _all_ dirty.’ She ducked to retrieve her fallen toothbrush. ‘To get you properly clean we’d have to scrub out that maniacal mind of yours. Open up.’ She wielded the toothbrush with as much menace as she could muster.

            Missy grinned, her pale gaze as ever entertained, and slowly opened her mouth.

            ‘I meant your skull,’ Clara mimicked, a horrid attempt at Missy’s Scottish brogue. She tossed the toothbrush over her shoulder and into the basin.

            ‘Or did you mean…?’ And Missy slowly, ever so damnably _slow_ , turned out one leg so Clara got a clearer look at what she’d only glimpsed before.

            ‘Get in the shower,’ Clara ordered, hoping her tone sounded more confident than she felt. She was still recovering from an unexpected Missy in all her nude glory.

            ‘Oh ho ho!’ Missy’s smirk made Clara want to knock her down a peg or two. ‘Is that an order, Captain?’


	2. Practice Makes Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, things are getting a little steamy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for doing just another little chunk! I wanted to get something up but knew I wouldn't have time to edit through more.
> 
> It's also clearer here that the sentence structure is a bit different from other smut. The complex sentences where they might otherwise be simpler is very intentional, partially for all the ladies of time (historical writings were generally more complex) but also for Clara in particular. She's enamored of a Victorian writer. Victorian writers ain't short with their sentences and neither is Clara.
> 
> My apologies if it ever seems a bit clunky - hopefully it's sexy enough even with the more complicated grammar. ;D

            ‘You bet your pretty little arse it is!’ She willed her next words to leave her lips as barked orders: ‘Shower. Now.’

            But Missy stood her ground. She did turn, however—only to stick out her bottom and circle it in Clara’s direction. ‘You think I have a pretty little arse?’

            “Little” was perhaps the wrong term, but Clara bit her tongue on that one. Instead she said simply, ‘No.’

            Her hand arched and swung back against Missy’s backside. Missy laughed, low and delighted, as Clara spanked her again—harder—and watched the way the woman’s bottom jumped and jiggled.

            Clara swapped hands and cheek in-between her words. ‘Get…in…the…shower.’

            ‘Isn’t the Mistress supposed to do the commanding?’ Missy asked, sultry-low with a look over her shoulder, her lashes fluttering theatrically. Missy was playing with her.

            Clara pulled up behind her and placed one hand over her neck, one cupped between her cheeks, just barely, and yanked until her body was tight and curved like a notched bow strung taught against Clara’s body.

            ‘No,’ she growled again in Missy’s ear. ‘Captain Oswin-Oswald does today and every day I see fit. Now are you going to get in the shower or do I have to play _nice?_ ’

            Missy pouted. ‘Please don’t.’

            ‘Then get in the damn shower.’

            ‘Yes Oswin,’ Missy gritted out through a perverse grin. ‘Only I can’t move.’

            Clara did that for her, dragging with the hand at her neck and pushing, steering, with the hand between Missy’s legs.

            Every other step left a half-footprint of minty-fresh goop. Clara rolled her eyes and gestured with the hand she quickly replaced around the base of Missy’s neck. ‘I’m making you scrub the floor with a toothbrush if you’re so fond of defiling it with toothpaste.’

            They’d reached the lip of the bathing area. The TARDIS had been kind to her in this regard, at least: the sort of bath-shower combination that might be found in the rich homes of California. The bath was built with natural stone and looked more like a hot spring or Jacuzzi. The shower was hidden in a corner around a wall of real stone, on a ledge behind the bath-pool. It took them a number of steps to see the shower at all; any guest might have missed it.

            ‘River owes me a favour for saving her arse in our last game of world-domination capture-the-flag.’ Immortality had not been a good influence on Clara’s fledgling conscience, but at least they (Clara, River, Ashildr) kept Missy more in line: no killing below the age of 18 and only ‘bad’ people, as approved by the Missy Massacre Covenant. Clara grinned again at her new idea. ‘I’ll make River clean naked. ‘Shildr and I will watch and comment.’

            ‘In a killer-queen dress with heels and some of my lingerie?’ Missy practically cooed at the image.

            ‘I do have my own, you know.’ Clara was in fact amassing quite a collection, although it still paled in comparison to Missy’s.

            ‘No, mine,’ Missy insisted. She pushed her rear farther onto Clara’s hand and stepped up the ledge to the bathing area. ‘River and I choose. Deal?’

            Oh, the lengths Clara went through to simply get her ship cleaned. But at least Missy was shooting for a deal at all—it had taken 20 years to teach her that (or at least, the advantages of “deal” over “dominion”). ‘Deal.’

            Missy turned in Clara’s hands and dragged her back until their bodies were flush together. She pressed her smiling lips to Clara’s and turned on the water, soaking Clara in her (still admittedly scanty, now very clingy) pyjamas.

            ‘You’ll pay for that.’ She bit Missy’s neck.

            ‘I sure hope so,’ came Missy’s breathless response. She snuck one finger under each strap of Clara’s camisole and tugged them down. Clara reclaimed her hands to strip out of the soaked top, which did little but stick to her skin while concealing nothing.

            Missy cupped each breast in warm hands and gave them a look that mingled reverence and arousal.

            Clara smiled and ran her fingers through Missy’s hair, watching each curl pull straight and spring back again despite the weight of water. When she felt a finger sneaking between the fabric of her knickers and her skin, she pulled Missy’s head back enough to see her inquisitive expression, split between Clara’s face and suggestive looks to her pants.

            ‘Yes, but no distracting me.’

            Missy fell gracefully to her knees and began dragging the material down Clara’s legs, following it with kisses and nips on alternating thighs.     

            ‘Distract you from what?’ she asked, all innocence for all that the breath of her words now stirred the curls between Clara’s legs.

            Clara squeezed the fingers in Missy’s hair and used them to pull the woman up. She gripped her hand around Missy’s neck again and held it there with pressure for a moment before raking it down Missy’s torso, slapping her arse again for good measure. ‘Distract me from _you_.’

            Then Missy’s arms were around her shoulders, pulling her in, and she didn’t stop it. She only marvelled at the feeling of their bodies melded together under the warm water, the feeling of wet kisses and Missy’s devilish smile.

            Clara felt stone against her back, felt her arms yanked over her head and pinned to the wall: Missy had got the better of her—for the moment.

            She lulled the Time Lady into a false sense of security by lifting one leg to wrap around her hips, pulling her closer. One of Missy’s hands dropped to hold it there, leaving only one to keep Clara’s in place.

            She took her opportunity: in one fluid motion, she tore her hands away and gripped the base of the shower-head, using it to pull herself up; she dragged her other leg up to Missy’s hip and swivelled until she was hanging from the shower and shoving Missy into the wall with her hips. Her grin widened at her success.

            ‘Someone’s been practising,’ Missy purred into the space between Clara’s breasts, licking up the water that sought lower fare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting so patiently! (;


	3. Cuffed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Notes:** Beware, the c-word begins to make an appearance here! It's a personal favourite for anatomically-correct smut. I'm an angel, I swear.

            ‘Someone’s been practising,’ Missy purred into the space between Clara’s breasts, licking up the water that sought lower fare.

            ‘Of course I have.’ Clara released the showerhead, sure of Missy’s strength to hold her and of the natural stone floor for traction. She instead tangled her fingers in Missy’s wet curls again. Every strand felt squeaky clean across her fingers; she swore she felt tingling sparks in the wake of her fingertips. ‘Otherwise you three would have an unfair advantage.’

            ‘Unfair advantage?’ Missy repeated, her eyes twinkling—too much mischief by half, that one—as she turned her head to bite Clara’s arm. She licked the water droplets and swivelled without warning to slam Clara against the wall again. ‘Unfair like memorising every game until we have to buy a new one any time we want to play?’

            Clara ducked her hands beneath Missy’s arms, gripped below her underarms, and used them to push and slide herself down Missy’s beautiful body despite being pressed against the wall. When her knees hit the floor, she held Missy’s legs and bit down on her thigh.

            ‘Oh, yes,’ Clara murmured around the skin she still held lightly between her teeth. She released it to throw a feral grin up to the troublesome Time Lady. ‘Because you _hate_ new things.’

            ‘There may be exceptions, but as a rule it’s rare.’ Missy hissed as Clara kissed along her lower abdomen, eyes still staring up at her.

            Clara set her fingers to motion inching up Missy’s thigh, pinching every few steps. ‘Weren’t you the one who told me that age and new experiences are correlated, that age and access to time technology only makes for unimaginable novel experiences?’

            Her fingers had reached the joining of Missy’s thighs and were lightly—ever so feather-lightly—spreading and exploring her curls, her lips. Missy groaned as much at the adversarial time-talk (and of Clara remembering, as she always did) as the motion of her fingers.

            ‘I may have,’ Missy responded, ever non-committal, and pressed herself down on Clara’s hand. ‘But since when can you trust anything I say?’

            Clara yanked herself up Missy’s long body and attacked her lips; at the same time she shoved a thigh between Missy’s, grabbed the showerhead and twisted Missy’s nipple—all limbs occupied, all signs go, and there was her vixen Time Lady nearly panting for her.

            ‘Since I taught you to beg,’ Clara added once she could feel the heat of Missy’s cunt on her thigh: hotter, even, than the water pouring down on them.

            Missy laughed in Clara’s face and pulled her close with two hands on her bottom, moving Clara’s thigh by directing her hips. Clara bit her bottom lip at the sight; there was no going back now.

            ‘You hardly taught me to beg,’ Missy countered. She pressed her forehead to Clara’s. ‘And you can trust intel farmed from torture least of all.’ Her lips were hotter than the steam circling them as she spoke against Clara’s mouth. ‘Trust me.’

            ‘But I can’t trust a word you say, by your own declaration.’ Clara smiled and kissed her long and hard, until her lips pinked up. ‘Though I’m honoured to know this is torture for you.’

            Missy groaned again as the thigh escaped from between her legs, despite her attempt to hold it there. ‘Knowing you is torture.’

            Clara lipped at her earlobe and smiled, making her voice a whisper. ‘To torture you is to know you. But I like my way better than the Doctor’s.’

            She then ducked down to put her mouth where by all intents and purposes Missy would want it, over the heat of her, but she was apparently mistaken: Clara felt herself being dragged back up by a fisted hand in her hair. Then she was face-to-face with Missy’s feverish eyes again, somehow seeming as pale as ever but with the dark gravity of black holes.

            Clara tried to read them, but every instant shone a new feeling in an endless sentence of emotive expressions. As usual, Clara got lost in it. She found herself again when Missy’s lips so hungrily collided with hers. Missy held her close with a hand on each cheek, over her ears and into her hair, until every sensation was Missy: warmth, wetness and the Mistress, who held Clara as if their kiss were the only true reminder that she wasn’t going anywhere.

            Clara’s breath came in gasps when they finally parted. She smiled against Missy’s cheek, caressed her neck and shoulders with the hand that wasn’t keeping her anchored to the removable showerhead.

            With that hand she angled the head against her leg so when she brought it between Missy’s again, the water hit her where it counted.

            Missy made an appreciative sound and threw one arm around Clara’s shoulders to keep her close. Clara was lost to the feeling of their wet bodies melded together and sliding against one another, for Missy had started rocking herself along Clara’s upper thigh.

            She tutted as she felt a hand try to sneak between her legs. She snatched it up and bit the soft flesh at the base of Missy’s thumb, then placed it back up near her own face, cradling her cheek again.

            ‘No. Distractions.’ Clara’s tone was insistent. She brought the showerhead closer to Missy’s cunt with each word, just for added emphasis. ‘Are you going to cooperate or do I have to take out the cuffs?’

            They both glanced up to the base of the showerhead, where a pair of innocuous-looking cuffs—if handcuffs could be such a thing—hung. They _looked_ innocuous, but they belonged to one Doctor River Song, and thus were anything but: this pair could give soft electrocution with the press of a button or a word only River knew. She was one of the few mad enough to keep electrocution cuffs in a shower; but then, knowing her, they were also likely to be waterproof against unsafe electrocution and rust, for she was mostly sensible in her madness. And on this ship she was in the company of the few others who would appreciate her unique flavour of mad genius.

            In a flash Missy had the cuffs down and around her wrist, then around Clara’s. Missy manoeuvred her hand to twine their fingers together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **End Notes:** Thank you for reading! More soon. My apologies for the tiny chunks - my life is way too busy.


	4. Magic Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara strives to teach the Mistress manners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wolfie may kill me for this and I may well deserve it. Here you go, anyway: things finally get going.

            In a flash Missy had the cuffs down and around her wrist, then around Clara’s. Missy manoeuvred her hand to twine their fingers together.

            ‘Does that mean you won’t be cooperating?’ Clara grinned and parted their hands just enough to sneak her thumb in-between and tickle Missy’s palm.

            ‘I don’t know what that word means. People try to tell me and _poof_ ,’ she paused to bring their hands up to her ear and pull away with widening fingers, ‘it disappears out the other ear. Or perhaps they disappear. It’s hard to remember these things.’

            Clara laughed again and kissed her, setting to work with the showerhead until Missy was moaning against her lips, grasping at her back and their connected hands.

            ‘Someone’s having a little too much fun with her punishment.’ Clara pulled the head away for a moment, swiping in less precise circles. When she honed in again, Missy tried valiantly to bite down the moan that threatened to escape. Clara smiled, sugar-sweet and slow as syrup, as she kissed Missy’s nose. Then at last Clara offered her neck with a devilish look of her own: clamp down and shut up—with underlying messages of “two can play this game” and “if I’m a vampire I’m taking you down with me, idiot”—all very clearly conveyed to an attentive Mistress.

            Missy hissed like a cat—or vampire bat—and latched on.

            Clara made a sound of pleasure that echoed through Missy’s body until she uttered a sympathetic sound against Clara’s neck, sending vibrations through her Clara over again as if stuck in a blissfully positive circuit.

            Perhaps one antithetically comparable to the one that shot through her wrist and down her hand; it jolted her enough to press the showerhead right against Missy’s clit.

            ‘Ahh-hhh!’ Missy cried into her shoulder, muffled by the skin between her slackening jaws.

            ‘Mmm,’ Clara murmured to Missy’s temple in return; she pressed her lips to the wet hair and smiled, keeping her lips there for her next words. ‘It sounds like someone wants to come.’

            ‘ _Oswin_ ,’ Missy said, almost a warning, but with the touch of resentment that rode the line of a toddler threatening a mutinous tantrum.

            ‘But someone hasn’t said the magic word.’

            ‘Fucking hell,’ Missy said, and then the equivalent in musical, lyrical Gallifreyan for which profanity seemed so unfitted—and made Clara’s insides jump and spark in something like anticipation.

            ‘Not quite the sort of magic I was going for, Miss.’ Clara’s tone was as wry as her smile against Missy’s dark curls.

            Clara dropped their shackled hands until she could work Missy’s hood with her fingers while still jetting her with the hard.

            ‘Now what was that magic word?’ Clara ducked her head sideways until she could steal Missy’s lips and catch her eyes again. ‘Was it… “cooperate”?’

            That shot lightning across Missy’s grey-sky eyes; immediately after, Clara felt Missy’s hand between her legs.

            Ah, yes, the shackles—clever cooperation. It forced something of a hum from Clara, one that heightened perilously close to a moan.

            The shackles didn’t allow Missy much freedom of motion; it only allowed her the access of one finger. But for Missy—or perhaps for Clara, but really for both—one was all she needed.

            ‘The Word, Missy.’

            Clara had more than one finger available, which combined with the well-placed streams of water meant Missy was putty in her hands. Or mostly was, for all that she tried to hold out against Clara’s demands.

            Missy’s response sounded something like, ‘Nnnngh.’

            Clara resorted to a final tool in her arsenal: herself. She moved her hips closer to Missy, allowing her more fingers, which Missy felt compelled to put to good use (toward her own demise).

            And with every swipe, sounds began to build up in Clara’s chest: in her neck, behind her eyes, filling up her body. At first she held them back with a skill at which Missy had only recently proven herself ineffectual.

            Then, as Clara took to rubbing at Missy’s shaft—strung so tight beneath her hood—while blasting in succession against her clit, Clara released the floodgates. With it came a low sound of pleasure rumbling through her chest, humming across her lips and rippling through the air between them to course right through Missy’s tensing body.

            Clara let herself float on the sound, surfing away from her body and the hot current of electricity that ran rampant there, piquing her nipples, goose-pimpling her skin. It made every inch of her feel impossibly hot and itchy in a way only Missy could scratch—and she was, oh how she was. Clara lost her mind to the pleasure and hardly wanted it back.

            She crooned out her swan song and butted her head against Missy’s, smacking and holding their foreheads until she could pin Missy with the brunt of her gaze during climax, the sights and sound of which were a weakness even against the woman’s stubborn pride.

            ‘ _Please_ ,’ Missy breathed at last, a whimper of sound escaping her lips as a resentful yet desperate deflation.

            ‘Oh,’ Clara cooed close to Missy’s lips. ‘Does someone want to come? Might it be…’ Clara was still gasping as she placed the showerhead more precisely. ‘…you?’

            But the feverish haze to Missy’s eyes disappeared in an instant of lucidity.

            ‘No,’ she said in a hoarse approximation of her voice. ‘Wait.’

            Clara held her tongue, although she could hardly keep her curiosity at bay as she watched the Mistress’ motions. She pulled her hand away—Clara’s following limply after—and tapped the stones in a strange pattern.

            ‘Are you trying to escape to Diagon Alley, Mary Poppins?’ Clara was still sensitive enough that even the look Missy cast her set her to tingling all over.

            A compartment in the stone slid open to reveal a dark rectangle of space. Missy reached her hand in without hesitation. When it emerged again, she was gripping a phallic object with bulbous curves. It was lime green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't throw things at me, you know you'll get more later if you let me live. ;D Hope you like! ♥⚢♥


	5. Just Imagine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara loves bringing friends into the metaphorical bedroom--or the shower, more accurately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so delayed. Things get crazy in my life on occasion, too much of the Busy Busy Beaver (I may be too gay to make that reference...) to work on creative projects much.
> 
> I've given you a longer section this time...

            ‘How did you know that was there? Why is it there? How did it get there? Why didn’t _I_ know it was there?’ The questions bubbled out of Clara until her eyes were wide with them; she batted them away with her hand, consequently dousing them both in warm water. ‘Ignore those. How do you know it’s clean?’

            Missy’s gaze slipped over Clara’s shoulder. ‘Because River and I were the last ones to use it?’

            Well that explained why it was lime green: it was River’s. The Mistress had an aesthetic more aligned with regal, royal gothic fashion—black or purple were more to her taste. The other questions would be answered in due time, on Clara’s insistence (like how many toys were hidden around her damn ship), but for now there were other matters of importance, like Missy’s impending climax: at this point well-deserved.

            Clara flicked and twisted her wrist fast enough to nick the godless green object from Missy’s fingers.

            ‘So you can’t clean a bathroom, but you’ll clean a dildo to hide in my shower?’

            Missy wrestled her hand until it was down at her hips again, thus dragging Clara’s and the toy as well.

            She traced it gently along Missy’s slit and used it to put pressure at her entrance. The fire returned to Missy’s eyes.

            ‘Please,’ she said, this time without prompting, which meant she was well and truly ready. Now it was up to Clara: how kind was she ready to be, or how ruthless? Which was to say: how ruthlessly kind?

            She entered Missy slowly, pressing only as her muscles relaxed, and stopped when it was two bulbs in. Clara smiled to see the third bulb and its graspable, harness-friendly end sticking out of Missy’s pretty pink cunt. She could see why River had chosen lime green.

            ‘Hold it there,’ Clara instructed, ‘and don’t let it move.’

            She saw Missy’s abdominal muscles clench as she set to holding the toy. Clara released it; the toy bobbed once and then stilled. She smiled and sloppily kissed her way up Missy’s neck as she lifted the woman’s leg over her hip.

            ‘Hold this position as long as you can.’

            Missy watched her, silent and intense and full of burning hot stars beneath her skin, as Clara drew one finger up along the length of her up-cast thigh. She groaned as the one finger reached the protruding toy and pushed, only until the third bulb slipped inside, and pulled away again. Missy held it for a moment before the third bulb again emerged, at which point Clara repeated her slow torture. This time she added the showerhead just above, which Missy helped guide with her shackled hand.

            ‘That’s it, nice and slow until you’ve earned more,’ Clara said against the time lady’s beautiful cheekbone, which she kissed with a tender yet menacing smile.

            Missy didn’t know what would make her deserving, but Clara was not mean-spirited: it was only what Missy was already inclined to do, which was make noise.

            And indeed, another groan turned to a whimper as her grasping muscles still allowed the toy to slip all too quickly from inside her. Clara rewarded her by pressing and circling the toy.

            Missy moaned in her ear and cast her free arm back around Clara’s shoulders, knitting fingers in her hair and keeping her close. The leg remained firmly in place. The moan received a long stroke in and out, Clara switching her gaze between the disappearing and reappearing dildo, and Missy’s face, with her expression full of yearning as it was. Her eyes were closed but eyelids fluttering fast; her face was ever-reddening with a flush that raced down her neck and over her chest.

            Clara’s thrusts quickened with every moan until Missy was chanting a warm mantra of pleasure and anticipation in Clara’s ear. When her moans came quick enough that matching thrusts would drive her over the edge, Clara made wider circles of the showerhead, just missing Missy’s sensitive clit.

            She drew her face close to Missy’s and smiled to watch her fluttering lashes, wondering what marvels she held in her mind: maniacal machinations, sure, but also the most evocative and marvellous imagination—all prepped for erotic manipulation, another trick from Ashildr and Jane Austen.

            ‘You can come for me any time you’d like, pet,’ Clara whispered through a wicked smirk, ‘but perhaps you’d like help?’

            Missy whined and tried to angle her hips toward the showerhead and the water that streamed forth as warm wet stimulation. But Clara steadied her hand and continued in loose circles.

            ‘I imagine River would be all too happy to help.’ Clara spoke in a low but clear murmur into Missy’s wet temple and moved her way down cheekbone and cheek as she spoke the next words, reaching Missy’s lips as she finished: ‘She’d give you one of those kisses you get when she hasn’t seen you in weeks, and she can’t get herself to stop, and you don’t want her to.’

            Clara lingered over Missy’s lips—Missy with her eyes closed but lips ready and seeking, waiting, expectant. Clara brushed their lips in a meeting of butterfly kisses; she made her way up to Missy’s other cheekbone.

            ‘So you kiss until the world disappears and River loses her control, every time, and ruins your up-do with her hands in your hair. And how sometimes, if you’re lucky, she forgets how vain she is about _her_ curls long enough for you to get a hand in hers as well—clench like a cat and she makes that sound, that purr, you know the one I mean. That sound that means someone’s getting naked with River Song and you’re lucky it’s you.’

            Clara’s lips were back over Missy’s, their hot breath mingling. Missy was gasping through her mouth; Clara blew a gentle gust of air over her lips from side to side.

            Missy made a grumpy sound, opened her eyes and kissed Clara with a vengeance, as if they hadn’t kissed in weeks: desperate and grateful and needy.

            Kissing Missy was like nothing else. She could kiss while stars were born and died behind her without once noticing, at least when you held her full attention locked in her lips. They’d once all kissed her into a frenzy—not so difficult to do—and told her what each would like to do to her that night, her birthday. When they got back to kissing her she came before they could properly touch her. It was one of the rare sessions she’d come twice—and the second had nearly done her in, had kept her come-drunk in bed for most of the next day.

            Clara and Missy parted with their teeth, Missy biting Clara’s lip and she in return allowing Missy’s lip to scrape slowly through her teeth.

            The circles of the showerhead became more precise again, slowly. Clara wasn’t done with Missy’s best weapon and weakness: her imagination. Fantasy was potent.

            ‘Or maybe—no, hell, _and_ —you’d have Ashildr there reading erotic poetry in your ear.’ Clara freed herself from the gravity of Missy’s mouth and turned to linger with her lips so near to Missy’s ear. ‘You know the way she likes to touch you, almost absent-minded, as she reads. But then when she minds you…’

            Clara darted her tongue out to prod at Missy’s earlobe. ‘You know her tongue is softer even than Sappho’s.’ She pulled the lobe into her lips, suckled at it and swiped it with her tongue. ‘The way she loves to make you squirm.’

            She dragged her teeth down Missy’s neck—it was straining just like the rest of her—and laughed into the soft, salty skin at the merger of her neck and shoulder.

            ‘And the way she lords her orgasm over you with such perfectly impeccable control that you’re _begging_ her to let you bring her to climax, to hear that sound she makes when she hasn’t come for days or weeks or even years…’

            Missy whimpered and pulled at their cuffed hands, pulled at Clara with everything she had.

            ‘But you wouldn’t know anything about waiting patiently for an orgasm, would you, love?’ Clara’s laughter and consequent smile were both maniacal and warm, a trick she’d learned from the Mistress herself. ‘I’ve seen you follow Ashildr around like a lost kitten, presenting all kinds of gifts in the off chance something will touch her enough that she’ll let _you_ touch her again, but at best—what a best—she’ll give you a little taste of heaven before heading back to her books, intentionally unfulfilled but perfectly composed—and haughty, proud as a lion-trainer.’

            Missy pouted at the scene Clara had set, for it was a familiar one. Clara grinned into Missy’s pulse point. ‘But you’re no lion, you’re a kitten.’

            ‘Puppy!’ Missy shot back in a breathy gasp. Only the ending ‘eee’ lasted much longer than required as Clara’s hands moved.

            She laughed and grew more deliberate in her strokes of Missy’s insides, sliding and circling the toy where it made her legs twitch, her abdomen clench, a burn of brilliant red spread farther across her body.

            ‘Ashildr loves to watch you squirm; we all do, because you think you make _us_ squirm, don’t you? Oh, but you can make us come. Perhaps that’s why Ashildr loves to torture you: she gets to watch you come undone over and over, fix you with a leash of desire that works better than any collar, and then, when the time is right…’

            Clara slowed and licked a broad stroke up Missy’s neck, touched their noses and barely brushing their lips with a grin so evil it burned. ‘She gets to lose herself in the knowledge you’re enjoying her ultimate pleasure as much as she is. She can turn a climax into reincarnation itself, burn herself up on your hand and be reborn anew—the only death she’s ever known. And then, when the universes has come and gone with her, you get to hold her as she breathes in the perfectly vulnerable state few mortals or madwomen have ever seen. The way she can look at you as if you’ve touched her heart right through her body and opened a window to her soul…well, it sets you aflame again, doesn’t it?’

            Missy grasped at anything she could with her free and shackled hands; the moan she loosed in Clara’s ear was so rich and needy that it rumbled through Clara’s head and across every inch of her body until it set her clit pounding like a drum. She didn’t know how Ashildr did it: _she_ could never resist Missy’s advances (but then, in the end, neither could Ashildr—she merely had the pretence of patience).

            ‘But I’m not Ashildr and I’m not going to make you wait any longer.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yet I've still been horrendously mean. Proof that Clara Oswald is much kinder than I. Thank you for reading! Final sextion (*grins*) up next. ;D


	6. Master of Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to get clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely horrid - both as a person, obviously, and equally in my complete inability to count. This is actually the second-to-last section, although it is the last _sextion_. ;D Cameos to come after Misffle.

            Missy sagged against Clara for all of an instant before Clara’s movements hastened; they strengthened in a way that immediately made Missy tense up again.

            Clara felt something settle onto her shoulder and turned to look: Missy’s leg, which she’d lifted from Clara’s hip and flung over her arm to land over her clavicle. Clara’s eyes widened as she realised the woman was essentially doing a split right over her body.

            ‘Holy shit,’ Clara said, the wonder and admiration clear in her tone, if not the eloquence of her vocabulary.

            Missy clenched her leg so her calf—damn strong, the old girl—pulled Clara close. She wasn’t sure who growled out a moan; somehow she bet it was both.

            ‘Slow and steady until I start to combust,’ Missy directed in a hot whisper, more breath than substance, yet Clara heard every word—she heard it everywhere in her body, first as wildfire across her skin and then as magma flooding her nerves as Missy continued, ‘Then hold me up.’

            Clara grinned until her teeth showed through her lips, at least until she leaned forward to press her forehead to Missy’s—the leg stretching between them—to kiss the woman senseless. She parted only long enough to say. ‘Come for me. Show me how it’s done.’

            Missy’s eyes were so bright and pale within her steadily-flushing face—so attentive and yet so lost to the heat of her pleasure—that Clara kept up her encouragement with interspersed kisses, which Missy sought out despite her inability to aim her kisses or close her mouth on the gasping moans that demanded release. Just as Missy’s body did, judging by the fever of her skin and the sweat compounding the moisture from shower and steam alike; her muscles strained and tensed in desperation.

            ‘Let it go,’ Clara told her in a voice as sweet and full as honey. ‘Just fly away; I’ll catch you.’

            Missy’s body shook as she fell apart against Clara, who could feel every tremor of her body in the places their skin touched. She could hear the universe exploding in the sound that ventured from deep within Missy's chest, low and coarse and grateful; she could hear the universe stitched back together in the rising pitch of the sound as it rose from growl to groan to melodious moan, rapturous and resplendent and so captivating it nearly took Clara with it.

            But she steadied herself against Missy, kept her there broken and beautiful and sailing home to wholeness. Missy clung to Clara with everything she had. At last—a long last, longer than surely any woman had right to experience, yet every moment was bliss to behold—her body began to settle. Her skin was so red it set Clara to smiling over a job well done as Missy gasped in breaths and sank against her, eyes closed and body languid.

            Clara held on with one arm, leaving the toy in Missy unaided, and freed up her second hand by replacing the showerhead in its dock. She let that hand fall to Missy’s head and stroked her wet curls, removing them from her sticky forehead with one finger, until Missy opened her eyes again.

            Her eyes set on Clara at the same time that her face broke out into the smile it only formed after one of her supernovas: wide, loose-lipped, a little uneven; white feral teeth and the most satiated look of satisfaction Clara had ever seen on anyone across whole galaxies. It was the look of a cat who had captured a cow and trained it to produce cream for her alone, and built her a fish-pond while they were at it—everything she could ever want, all hers. There was never such a feeling of accomplishment as to rival that of having made Missy come apart like that. On _that_ score, Clara was in complete agreement with Ashildr.

            ‘I think…’ Missy stopped to swallow after her words came out as more of a cough. ‘I think we need to take a shower.’

            ‘What have we been doing then?’

            ‘Making a mess.’ Missy’s lips quirked up. She added a beat later, ‘Of me.’

            Clara glanced over to where she knew toothpaste still stained the floor with its minty freshness. ‘You are the master of messes.’

            ‘Mistress. And from where I’m standing,’ Missy started in a drawl, indicating her stance with her free hand and kicking at the now-discarded toy (freed while Clara was distracted, and with nary a change of expression), ‘You’re not exactly a _master_ of cleanliness either. I was perfectly clean before you came along.’

            ‘You and I have very different ideas on cleanliness.’ Clara leaned in close and stole Missy’s lips while turning on the shower again. She spoke against Missy’s parted lips. ‘From where _I’m_ standing, you’ve hardly been clean a day of your life.’

            Missy grabbed Clara’s hair and twisted their heads until they were under the stream of water, which ran over and around her lips as she replied. ‘Oh, and you’re supposed to be helping with that, are you?’

            ‘I said nothing of the sort,’ Clara insisted. She grabbed the soap from the nearest shelf with their linked hands. ‘But I at least clean up the messes I make—a lesson you would do well to learn.’

            ‘Would I?’ Missy arched into Clara’s touch where she spread the sudsy gel. ‘Because so far you’ve taught me that if I make a mess I get to come on your hand and watch River clean in the nude, with you supervising in my lingerie.’ Her wet leg snuck between Clara’s. ‘My dear Clara, I don’t think you’re quite the teacher you believe yourself to be.’

            Clara was still hopelessly aroused from Missy’s recent supernova and worried little over the comment; in a matter of short moments she was sliding along Missy’s thigh, then one—two—three fingers, and biting Missy’s shoulder on a moan. She let Missy carry her away and came hard, seeing spots in her vision as she craned up to kiss anything she could, which happened to be Missy’s jawline. It turned out to be less of a kiss and more Clara panting into the soft skin of the woman’s neck just beneath her jaw, but accuracy was hardly a pressing issue.

            Eventually she steadied herself again, without releasing Missy’s thigh, and was none worse for wear beyond the hard breathing.

            ‘I’m a fine teacher when my students aren’t a _complete and utter pain in the arse_ ,’ she said around her occasional gasps (because of course Missy was never above teasing her with thigh or finger when she was extra sensitive).

            ‘So…never?’ Missy offered, helpful as ever.

            Clara ripped their hands away from where Missy was continuing to tease her with that one pesky finger. With the other hand she dumped shampoo on Missy’s head and carefully kept it out of her eyes. She’d likely already washed it, but Clara could never resist getting her fingers in Missy’s well-kept hair.

            ‘I hate you,’ Clara announced as she worked up a bit of a lather. ‘And I’m going to kill you.’ She said it in the sort of tone she might use to announce the mail delivery or another apocalyptic prediction.

            ‘You already have.’ Missy hummed at the feeling of fingertips massaging her scalp and followed suit on Clara’s hair, which had _not_ been washed some quarter-hour before. ‘Try the other one.’

            Clara worked very hard not to make an appreciative sound or expression at Missy’s highly competent and thorough head massage, for the woman was a menace of the worst sort and now she only had one hand available for washing the stupid woman clean. Again.

            ‘Can you take these off now?’ Clara asked, glancing to where her hand followed Missy’s over their heads.

            ‘Oh, did I not mention?’ Missy’s smirk held more mischief and mirth than the Devil’s. ‘I haven’t the key.’

            ‘It must be in that compartment; that’s what would make sense.’ But even as Clara said it, she was experiencing the dread of realisation: she had fallen into Missy’s hands again—literally. Because while River Song had an abundance of sense, and frequently used it, she often went with precisely the opposite, just for shits and giggles. ‘There must be a release command.’

            ‘Where would the fun be if I knew the command?’

            ‘Because you’re a devious pseudo-bottom and can find your way out of anything?’ Clara replied, deadpan as ever, and slapped Missy’s bum with her free hand, still slick from conditioner.

            ‘In that case…’ Missy raked her nails down Clara’s equally conditioner-slick back. ‘It slipped my mind?’

            ‘Nothing _slips your mind_ ,’ Clara protested, finally emphasising the tongue-tapped ‘r’ correctly in her mocking tone. ‘And now I’m going to be very, very nice to you.’

            Missy’s expression was the clearest “please don’t” Clara had ever seen, which only made her grin turn crooked.

            ‘Won’t I, my beautiful darling? Look at your shinning, clean hair—it’s like a waterfall in my hands, ink stains between my fingers.’ Clara wrestled her arm back from Missy, who had of course tried to drag it behind her back for double cat-clawing despite Clara’s arm clearly not bending that way. She used both hands to stroke Missy’s hair as if she were a doll. ‘My clean little angel. Squeaky clean, stunning as a sunset, mischievous as the night and twinkling stars.’

            She ended with a whisper and a kiss to Missy’s nose, knowing it was an old weakness of hers.

            Missy was conflicted between detesting Clara’s saccharine-toned purple prose and thriving a the attention. She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, her toes occasionally landing on Clara’s, who grinned and settled Missy’s feet on hers to dance her around the shower.

            ‘Now, my dashing dove, we’re going to clean that dildo _again_ and pay our esteemed River Song a visit. Understand, my night-blooming flower?’

            Missy groaned at the sweet-talk and nodded against Clara’s head.

            ‘Good,’ Clara said with her usual devil-may-care tone. ‘Now pick that up and show me just how well you can clean up your messes.’

            Missy picked up the dildo with her foot, wielded it at Clara with a scowl and trudged them over to the sink. She set to washing the toy—thoroughly, Clara noted with a careful gaze—as Clara dried them off with her available hand.

            They managed to tuck each other in separate towels but could do little about their wet hair: Missy’s in sleek ringlets, Clara’s hanging straight down against her cheeks and neck. That was how they approached River; they both knocked with their linked hands and their usual unintentional synchronicity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final section with the full Quad Squad soon as I can!


	7. It's a Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy and Clara find their way to freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final bonus section: the Mad Quad Squad makes an appearance. I'm sorry for the delay! Life got mighty mad there for me - and continues to be so - as I work on doing whatever I can to improve this dystopian world.
> 
> Writing definitely helps, so here you are, in case reading does the same. ♥
> 
> At some point I'll get these down to one chapter and start posting the other chapters I have planned, but those have to get written first so for now I'm marking this one as complete. Thank you for sticking around!

            River Song opened the door in a dress so slinky it could hardly be considered a dress, more a shining, slithery set of lingerie. There was little left to the imagination for her legs through the sheer stockings; her garters were visible where they ended.

            ‘Hello, sweetie—’ she began, then quickly took them in. Her smile grew as the door opened wider. ‘Sweet _ies_ ,’ she amended. It took her all of an instant to assess the reason for their visit: their cuffed hands, still linked by the restraints and by their entwined fingers, which was perpetually Missy’s fault (quite secretly to Clara’s enjoyment).

            ‘Were you expecting someone?’ Missy asked before Clara could fend her off with the question actually at hand: _their hands_ , and how she wanted hers back. Mostly.

            ‘I’m always expecting someone, dear,’ River said with the characteristic sultry, secretive smile of hers. ‘Tonight I was expecting Ashildr.’ She looked over their shoulders. ‘And wouldn’t you know, there she is. What serendipitous timing.’

            She waited as Ashildr strolled up. ‘ _Hello_ , sweetie,’ River said, this time to the intended audience.

            Clara turned to look. Ashildr appeared as formal as River did not, dressed in a three-piece double-breasted suit over a surprisingly flat chest, with a folded hand-kerchief visible at her breast pocket. Her hair was slicked back flat against her head; when she turned to smile—tight-lipped but fond—at the two interlopers, Clara saw she wore her hair in an intricate braided bun at the nape of her neck. But perhaps most noticeable to Clara, who was clearly paying rapt attention, was the way Ashildr’s creased trousers bulged some at the crotch. She hadn’t taken care to masculinise her face, so not an Asher day, but perhaps Ash. Or ever an alternative still: ‘Just Me.’

            She also held flowers, which she passed to a smiling River.

            Ashildr had been equally busy taking in River just as carefully. Now she turned to inspect their two surprise guests. There was still a look of dazzlement to Ashildr’s expression that soon transformed to an all-too-perceptive gaze as her eyes locked in on the cuffs.

            ‘Would you like to join us? Attire is supposed to be formal, but you can see River has already taken liberties.’

            River pouted. ‘But I want them in little black dresses—no, red for Clara.’ She turned to them again. ‘Stay. You must.’

            ‘Are you sure? We don’t want to impede on your date night.’ She squeezed Missy’s hand, hard, when she went to open her mouth. Of course Missy didn’t actually care: in her world, she had an open invite anywhere she damn well pleased.

            River and Ashildr exchanged telling looks that ended in affectionate smiles.

            ‘We’re sure,’ Ashildr confirmed.

            ‘And I won’t take the cuffs off unless you accept the invitation,’ added River, who was not above doing things the dirty way to get _her_ way. None of them were: it was why they got along so well.

            Missy grinned like the Cheshire Cat. ‘Clara needs the invitation to get in.’

            ‘For the last time, I am not a vampire!’ Clara stomped her foot and lifted their hands. ‘Take this damn thing off and I’ll wear anything you want!’

            ‘ _Anything?_ ’ River repeated, looking to Ashildr with clear delight.

            Clara swallowed. She lived in a pit of snakes, and she could only blame herself, because it was her sodding spaceship. Who the hell had let snakes on her spaceship? Oh, but of course, _she_ was the royal idiot here.

            ‘What will I be wearing?’ she asked in a tone bordering on meek. She would be lucky if it wasn’t the food, the way these three were staring at her.

            ‘Oh, but my dear,’ River started as she gripped Clara and Missy’s hands in hers. ‘Why that would be… _spoilers._ ’

            At that word, the cuffs came undone and slid away into River’s grasp. She smiled and leaned to kiss Clara’s shocked face, winking as she pulled away. ‘Sometimes the best choice is the one everyone thinks would be too simple. But it’ll be different next time, so be careful with this one.’ She indicated Missy with her chin. Yes, Clara would be careful with her—careful to kill her in new and unique ways. Painfully. Over long periods of excruciating time. She suddenly understood Ashildr with blinding clarity.

            River leaned over again, this time to Missy, and gave her a kiss as well, then whispered in her ear and tilted her head toward Clara, who shifted nervously.

            ‘Absolutely,’ Missy promised—promised what?—and began to tug Clara away. Missy’s towel fell loose and slipped straight off, but she didn’t bother to pick it up.

            Ashildr did instead. Clara shot her an apprehensive look, pleading her long-time friend and companion to help her, but the dear boy only smiled in that exasperatingly knowing way of hers.

            ‘Don’t be too long,’ Ashildr instructed as Clara was dragged down her own damn corridor by a nude madwoman. ‘You know how River gets when she’s hungry and impatient.’

            Just before they turned a corner, Missy the Damnable Mistress stared down, plucked Clara’s towel from her very body, and swung it around over her head.

            ‘We’re off to see the River, the Wonderful River of Sex!’ she sang as they made their way down the next corridor. Missy’s demure clothes—so noticeably absent now—were the most misleading thing about her, at least now she’d been further corrupted by the madness of four terrible things: Clara, Ashildr, River and the consistent force of friendships which begets honour amongst thieves.

            ‘We’re all mad here,’ Clara muttered, with a sigh, and allowed herself to be pulled away. All she’d wanted was a bath. She might well get it, too, but she was unlikely to get it alone.

            Clara pretended to mind as she was manoeuvred into a red dress as much a top as anything else. Oh, what did it matter if it wasn’t going to last much past dinner anyway?

            And with Missy looking at her like she was a meal, Clara was again unsure if she was a dinner guest or the table itself, but then they were off again.

            One of these days, Clara thought in a resigned fashion, she would actually get her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a love you are for keeping with it 'til the end! What did you think? Any requests...? (;

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading! Please leave a comment if you've liked (or disliked!) this piece - I read and cherish every word! ♥


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